Multicoloured
by Winged'Pollution
Summary: She finds herself on the edge of two worlds of different colours, walking the tightrope. Eventually, she must learn to spread her wings, as all eagles must.
1. Sunset

**Chapter 1**

**Dear readers,**

**Yes, here I am, long-time viewers of Masquerade. It's a different genre, I know, but bear with me. Reviews help. ;) So enjoy, no flames, leave long reviews and you get cookies!**

**Sincerely,**

**AF**

**Disclaimer: I in no way own the incredible game Assassin's Creed or any of its characters, because if I did there would be shirtless Altair scenes. ;D**

**Song: Walking on Air, Kerli.**

"_**There's a little creepy house in a**_ _**little creepy place, little creepy town**_

_**in a little creepy world.**_ _**Little creepy girl with her**_

_**little creepy face, saying**_ _**funny things that you have never heard.**_

_**Do you know what it's all about?**_ _**Are you brave enough to figure out?**_

_**Know that you could set your world**_ _**on fire, if you are strong enough to leave**_

_**your doubts. Feel it, breathe it, believe it,**_ _**and you'll be walking on air . . ."**_

_**)()()()()(**_

I ran. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs ached, and I ran until I felt as if I would no longer be able to move another step, and still I ran. The obnoxious clanking and smashing of heavy metal armor rebounded against the alley walls until the sound was quickly absorbed by the dirt walls. My worn leather boots made hardly a sound against the dusty unpaved street, and small clouds of dirt flew up where my feet hit the ground. The sounds of my pursuers increased in volume, and I realized that in my state, climbing a building would be futile. Sprinting around a corner, a slight sound and a flash of silver caught my eye; a sword had barely missed my arm. Vaulting over several small wooden crates, I aimed my run for an open, sunny souk. My dagger was pulled from its sheath before I had come to a halt. Twisting around suddenly, I caught one of the Damascus soldiers off guard and cut a deep gash across the man's chest.

At the sight of the blood and violence, passing civilians began screaming and ran in random directions, not seeming to notice that they were adding to the chaos. Dropped merchandise from nearby merchants' stalls cluttered the souk, making several people slip. The unfortunate passersby who fell were trampled underneath the parading steps of the others. Trying to ignore these morbid facts, I unsheathed my blade just fast enough to block an incoming attack from a guard on my right. Another, sensing an opening on my left, lunged at my exposed side. I knocked the sword away, which had cut close enough to my ribs that a small cut appeared in my robes. I felt a hot bead of blood drip down my side, and it was then that it dawned upon me that it was possible I would not live to tell how I got that scar. There were at the very least a dozen guards surrounding me, and I was already exhausted from fleeing from these same men. My thoughts were wandering to the poison vial hidden in robes, made for such a purpose as to keep information from our many enemies, when the guard directly in front of me made a chilling gurgle and fell to the ground, dead. A knife that was not my own protruded from his neck.

I turned my head slightly, and saw a figure silhouetted against the sun on a building to my right. The figure leapt swiftly to the ground and stuck a short, dirty blade into the chest of the guard closest to it. With a movement so fast even I had trouble following it, the figure's hand whipped to the left, grabbing the helmet of a very unfortunate guard. Another hand struck out and smashed into the man's chin, cracking his head to the side and snapping his neck. The figure turned to face me, and I blinked several times to make sure my eyes were not decieving me. It was a woman, and a red scarf covered most of her face, all but her eyes. But her eyes were the most peculiar of all. One iris was a shocking, sky blue, while the other was a dark, enveloping green.

_**)()()()()(**_

Well, this little eagle had gotten himself into quite the uncomfortable spot, now, hadn't he? I smirked as Ieapt from my vantage point atop a house and quickly killed of two of the several surrounding men. After apparently getting over his initial surprise, the Assassin began assisting me in dispatching the majority of the remaining guards. Three particularily seasoned fighters who had survived turned and sprinted away with their tails between their legs.

A bark of laughter pealed from my throat and I called after the fleeing men, insulting them and their parentage. With a final rude gesture in their direction, I turned back to the robed man. I shifted the red scarf I kept over my face. The garment covered my nose and mouth, and I never, under any circumstances, removed it. It was something permanent; There was no one living who had seen my face below my eyes. But unlike other women, I did not wear this scarf because I was supposed to. I found the practise of keeping one's hair covered vain and idiotic.

Smirking, I strolled to where the man was standing. I observed his white robes with a red sash, his well-crafted sword and concealing hood. Raising an eyebrow, I said, "You are an assassin, are you not?"

The assassin narrowed his eyes at me. My grin was concealed beneath my scarf, and I took his reaction to confirm my suspicions. Rolling my neck, I briefly scanned the horizon and centered my gaze on the tallest minaret in the city. A single eagle circled the point; I had seen that very same eagle many times. This I knew, due to the unique dark brown streaks on the upperside of its wings-no other bird I had seen looked quite like that one. I had to wonder if it was planted, to search the city or something similar. Shaking my head to clear my wandering thoughts, I turned back to where the assassin had stood a moment before, and was taken aback when there was no one there.

My knowing smile was accompanied by closed eyes and a slow nod. I opened my eyes and turned in a full circle, observing the sun-baked rooftops around me.

"Very well, Assassin," I called out to no one in particular. "But I have a proposition for you. And I know you are interested, because you are still listening to me right now," My smile shifted into a grin. "I have a proposition for you. Meet me at sundown at the top of the tallest minaret. I will see you then." I turned and jogged down a familiar alleyway without another word.

_**)()()()()(**_

The woman disappeared into a dark sidestreet. I abandoned my position inside a shadowed roof garden to return to the Bureau. My footsteps scraped across sun-baked roofs, and as I ran I contemplated the offer the woman had made me. That woman . . . she was something unlike I had ever seen. She wore tattered clothes and was covered in the filth of the streets, yet she fought as if she had been trained. She obviously had no disinclination towards violence, and yet she covered her face, like very other female in the Holy Land. I would consult with the Rafiq before sundown.

I reached the Bureau and dropped down into the shaded building. The Rafiq was behind his desk as usual, poring over more dusty scrolls and ancient papers. The man looked up at me as I walked in.

"Altair, welcome, welcome! Who's life do you come to collect today?" He asked.

"His name is Abu'l Nuquod," I replied. "What can you tell me about him?"

The Rafiq nodded his head, as if very interested. "Oh, the Merchant King of Damas, richest man in the city, quite exciting, quite dangerous! I envy you, Altair. Well, not where you were beaten and stripped of your rank, but I envy everything else. Oh, wait, except for all the terrible things the other Assassins say about you. But, yes, aside from the failure and hatred, aside from those things, I envy you very much!"

"I do not care what the others think or say," I scowled. The others could humor themselves however they wished, but rank counted for nothing. I still retained by skills, and those were what I had worked to gain, what most of the other Assassins were still working to gain. "I am here to do a job. So I ask again: What can you tell me about the Merchant King?"

The Rafiq had taken out a brush and ink and had begun painting a clay vase. "Only that he must be a very bad man for Al Mualim to want him killed. He keeps to his own kind, wrapped in the finery of the city's noble district. He is always up to something. I am sure if you spend some time amongst his type, you will learn all you need to know about him."

"And where would you have me begin my search?"

"If I were you, I would start with the Omayad mousk, and the souk Say'youja. Both of which are west of here. Further to the north is Salah al-Din citidel. It is a popular meeting spot, and has proved a reliable source of loose tongues in the past. Yes, these three places should serve your needs."

"My thanks for your guidance, Rafiq. But I would ask your opinion on a matter."

"Oh? What is it?"

"I encountered a woman today, unlike any I have met before. This woman was a fighter unlike any I had seen on the street, and she requested to meet me on the top of the tallest minaret in the city. I believe she has a deal that involves the Brotherhood, and I ask if I should consider what she has to offer."

The Rafiq bursted out in laughter. This was not the reaction I had expected, but I waited until he was finished. Wiping tears from his eyes, the Rafiq snickered, "Chasing after girls now, Altair?"

"No," I said firmly. "But seeing as you do not take this seriously, I will pursue the matter myself."

As I turned to walk out, the Rafiq called out, "Yes, I thought you would, Altair. Good luck on your search of the city!"

_**)()()()()(**_

Warm wind blew through my hair, and I let my dark tresses fall across my shoulders and my back, down to my waist. My legs dangled over the edge of the sturdy wooden platform I sat upon. Pale pinks and reds shone through the wispy, dehydrated clouds, and I laid back to rest my head on the stone railing behind me and gazed up at the darkening sky, my legs from the knees down falling into open air. The light smells of dust and hay lingered in the air, and I inhaled deeply through my nose, taking in the comfortable aromas. Such scents reminded me of a time long ago, when I had something to live for, people I loved, tasks to complete besides disposing of brutal city guards and scavenging for my next meal. I wrapped a lock of my hair around my finger and absentmindedly rubbed at the greasy curl. I could not remember the last time I had taken a proper bath, if it had ever happened. Swiping a hand across my cheek, I saw that layers of dirt and dried sweat caked that as well. My light green dress (which I had stolen from a rather naive young woman) was ripped from the tops of my thighs, leaving room for me to maneuver and fight; though several times, due to the shortness of the garment, I had been mistaken for a woman of ill repute and I had taken much pleasure in beating the drunken slobs who had dared assault me.

A scraping of a boot gently woke me from my daydreams. Looking due west, I noted that the sun had just disappeared below the horizon. I shifted further back so my hands rested on the balcony that was connected to my wooden platform, and I was staring at the assassin upside-down.

"You came," I chirped. "I knew you would."

"You hardly gave me a choice," He said lowly. "Now what is it you want from me?"

I flipped backwards so I was standing in the narrow balcony, nearly nose to nose with the killer. There was a small vertical scar on his lips. I do not know why I noticed that; perhaps it was the fact that our faces, due to the narrowness of the balcony, were only centimeters apart. "Like I said, I have a proposition for you. After deducing that you belonged to the order of Assassins-do not glare at me so! It was quite obvious. You might as well have had a sign on your back declaring such. But that is beside the point. I am going to be blunt with you, assassin; I am not one to beat around the bush. The honor would be mine if you would allow me to join your Brotherhood."

_**)()()()()(**_

This was something of a surprise to me. It was not what I expected her to say in the least. Although I was deeply inclined to say no, she seemed genuine in her devotion. As if sensing my thoughts, she was quick to futher alter my opinion.

"I am tired of living on the streets. And you have seen me fight; I would be more than capable than handling whatever you may throw my direction," I must admit, she raised a valid point, but there were many capable fighters who did not have a profession and were abandoned to the alleys, forced to steal for their income. We could not recruit every urchin that came to us asking for shelter, although some of my Brothers may want to. There was simply not enough room at Masyaf. Yet something-a gut feeling, if you will-told me that this was not just the average street criminal.

I hesitated, but after another moment of consideration, I nodded my head once. The woman was clearly ecstatic, but before she got her hopes up too high, I held up a hand to stop her.

"I did not say yes," I growled. "Your place in the Brotherhood is not for me to decide. You will accompany me to the Bureau, and the Rafiq there will send a message to my Master and he will be the one to admit you. When we reach the Bureau, you will not be permitted to leave or contact any accomplices or companions. From here, you are on your own. The same rules will apply when we reach Masyaf, if you get that far. Are you willing to accept these sacrifices?"

Her scarf covered her face, but her uneven eyes told me what her smile could not. "I live to serve the Brotherhood," She vowed.

I nodded once more. "Very well. Follow me, then."

_**)()()()()(**_

I was soaring. Finally, after years of living on my own, of living in scum, I would be part of something bigger, something that I could be proud to fight and die for. At last my pent up excitement could not contain itself any longer, and I spun on my heel and dove off the minaret.

Peace enveloped me as I flew through the air, watched Damas racing up to meet me. Soft hay suddenly consumed me, and I leapt out and turned my gaze back to the assassin at the top of the minaret. A flash of white, and he was standing next to me. He immediatly took off at a jog norht, and I followed him into my new life.

[…]

We arrived at a small, nondescript building. I dropped down through wooden grating with which dense vines crawled across. A fountain chuckled against one wall, and a woven rug lay across the floor. But what caught my attention were the pillows. I had never seen furniture so beautiful. Decorative weavings patterned the cushions, and they were soft beyond anything I ever could have imagined. I slowly sank to my knees among the voluminous things, absentmindedly fingering a corner of one. It was then that my insides seemed to crumble. Thi was my life now, whether I liked it or not. This was something I loved, certainly. After all, it had been my idea in the first place. ut it was the sort of event that was difficult for one to wrap one's mind around. There was no other choices at this point. I turned my eyes to the assassin, who was watching me with a strange look on his face. Quickly looking away, I brushed a piece of hair away from my eyes, one that always seemed to be in the way. That was when I noticed that there was a doorway leading into a shady room, sweet-smelling smoke drifting out the doorway. I saw shelves lined with jars and bowls, all clay, and all painted with intricate designs in black paint. The assassin glanced at me again before walking into the room. I extracted myself from the pillows and followed him in.

A man wearing a black cloak and white robes stood behind the counter, painting another piece of pottery. He looked up as we walked in, and I noticed a poorly concealed grin lighten his face.

"Ah, Altair, welcome! Back so soon!" I scanned the man up and down. Energetic, he enjoyed his job. Older, perhaps five-and-thirty years, a retired assassin, and a potter. "And this lovely lady must be the one you spoke of meeting," I nodded to him silently. He smiled at me and turned back to Altair. With a start I realized that I had not known his name before now. The fact that the black-cloaked man had been so careless with Altair's name interested me. I focused back on the conversation, taking a quiet note to ask Altair about his name secrecy later.

"What was it that she wanted, Altair? I kiss from a novice?" The man continued, holding back laughter. If I concentrated, I thought I might be able to hear Altair grinding his teeth.

"I am no novice, Rafiq. Still your tongue before I cut it out." Altair growled threateningly to the Rafiq. This did little to stop the barely-contained chuckles, which seemed to make Altair more irritated by every passing second.

"Very . . ." More laughter. "Very well. But in all seriousness, what was her proposal?"

The space of a second passed. The one second of still air, with the slightest hesitation on Altair's part, in which my fate would be decided. Time caught up with me.

"She wishes to join the Brotherhood," Altair stated. Silence. No laughter at Altair's expense punctured the air, the soft sound of a brush being dipped in ink had subsided, and even the cooing of messenger pigeons stopped. All was still in the world. It seemed to me as though time itself had come to a halt, was holding it's breath to see the Rafiq's decision. The man's face was stony and my hope began to shrivel away, like a flower with no sunlight. I could see thoughts racing through his head, weighing options, reading possible outcomes. After several seconds, something seemed to settle in his eyes.

"You say she can fight?" The Rafiq asked quietly. A petal of my inner flower rose to life. Altair confirmed with a nod.

"Yes. Better than some novices at Masyaf. Though she already knows far too much about us; perhaps the wise decision would be to kill her."

I was shocked to the bone. This was a reaction I had anticipated, but to have one's death blatantly stated as such . . . there were many things I have endured, but I had thought I had found an ally in Altair, but evidently I was mistaken. Though my flower did not yet wither, the ground around it hardened.

"Fine," I snapped, my temper rising suddenly. "I do not care. Simply decide what to do and be done." Twisting on my heel, I marched out into the lighter room and promptly lay on the pillows, and waited.


	2. Travel

**Chapter 2**

**Dear readers,**

**Welcome to chapter 2. I've been really, really, tied up with my other story, ****Masquerade, ****which you should ****totally check out because it kicks major ass. ****Anyway, here it is. Don't be too harsh, I've been writing from a modern standpoint for months.**

**Sincerely,**

**AF**

**Song: Heart Skips A Beat, Lenka**

"**My world is turning slowly now, but it's burning **

**Up somehow; I need some time to know what's right.**

'**Cause it's only in the quiet that I feel some relief."**

A sharp pain in my head woke me. I had not even realized I had dozed off. Gingerly lifting my forehead from the hard-packed dirt floor, I rubbed the tender spot where I had accidentally struck myself. Adjusting my scarf, my gaze was drawn upward to the doorway, where two conversing men were still glaring at each other over the wooden counter. Sighing, I leaned back into the richly colored cushions and folded my arms, my chin resting against my collarbone. The soft fabric of my scarf felt wonderful against my skin, and I nuzzled closer, letting my mind wander to the topic of my possible fate in the Brotherhood.

Were there any women, other than myself? I did not know if assassins were any more honorable than most men in this city; that is to say, not honorable in the least. Murderers, rapists, thieves, all of them. Destroying any good patches in the world, corrupting and poisoning. Ripping out my heart and tearing it to pieces, and just when they began to carefully patch themselves together, men simply rip it apart again and leave me to die alo—

"Get up, woman; you are to come with me."

A gasp flew from my mouth as I opened my eyes to see Altaïr looming over me, a steely look upon his face. My heart jumped, so I pushed the organ further back into my chest, keeping it from spouting it's traitorous nonsense at my mind. But what did this mean, my following Altaïr? Did it mean that I was now part of the Brotherhood? Was he going to kill me? Despite being around death quite often, the notion filled me with dread, and undeniably a hint of fear.

But it seemed I would have no time to ponder this, for Altaïr tossed something white at me before walking back into the back room and turning yet another corner just inside the doorway, into what looked like a supply room or kitchen. Unfolding the strange white cloth, I found it to be a set of clean white robes, with a pair of gray pants and a red sash to tie about my waist. My face flushed, and I looked quickly into the other room to give the Rafiq a look that, had looks had the power to injure, would have struck him dead where he stood.

He laughed, "I know what you are thinking, but believe me when I say that these are far more comfortable than any makeshift gear you can more than likely produce on your own, my friend." My cheeks deepened in its red shade when I realized just how high my dress was cut.

Glaring, I snapped, "Very well." I walked behind a wall so that he could not see me, and tore off my short green dress and threw on the white robes faster than was humanly possible. I was moderately surprised at the way the robes seemed to settle along my hips and shoulders, making it comfortable, easy to move about in, and still slightly feminine. Frowning, I reached into the pile of my old, filthy clothes and brought something out of one of the pouches—chest bindings. I had rarely used them, but it seemed like it would help now. I quickly undressed and wrapped the clothes around my chest, making my breasts look almost nonexistent. It was not perfect, but it was as good as I could do for the time being. I slipped on my old boots, noticeable by the black feathers I had tied into the strings on the sides.

Pulling the hood of the robes up, I tucked my hair and scarf behind it, so now only that one annoying dark curl now hung over my eyes. Pushing it angrily away, I stalked into the pottery room, where smoke from several sticks of fragrant incense now fogged the air. Crossing my arms, I demanded to know where Altaïr was.

The Rafiq simply shrugged and nodded behind him, toward the area which I was now sure was a kitchen. _Cooking? What an odd hobby for killers . . ._ Frustrated now, for no apparent reason, I marched into the tiny kitchen, which was occupied now by only a cupboard for non-perishables, a pit for a fire, and a rather impatient-looking assassin.

My temper flaring, I stomped to where Altaïr was sitting, next to the fire pit. He was sitting with his legs crossed, hands pressed firmly in the dirt between his feet. Raising an eyebrow, I casually sat down next to him and tilted my head so I was peering underneath his hood. It felt like a nail had been hammered into my chest, pinning me to the spot; his eyes were fixed directly on my own. My heart stopped for a split second before jumping and returning to a normal pace.

"Are you quite done?" He asked coolly, sarcasm dripping from his words like poisoned honey.

Growling, I responded with honey and toxins. "Quite done with what?"

Obviously frustrated, he stood swiftly and stormed out of the kitchen, thunder claps haunting his steps. Rolling my eyes at the stubbornness of men, I followed Altaïr, but the assassin was gone, a flicker of white cloth betraying him as he scaled the fountain and disappeared onto the sunlit roof, where I lost sight of him. About to follow him, I stepped forward, but I remembered the Rafiq, still behind the desk a room over.

Twisting around, I gave him a hurried farewell and a bow before jumping back and flying up out the roof, listening to the Rafiq's good-natured chuckle echoing behind me.

[…]

Altaïr and I reached the city limits fairly quickly, pausing only once to remove an archer posted on a nearby rooftop. We reached the souk that surrounded the main entry to Damas, and my eyes moved brightly over the positions of the armed guards, watching the way they peered at passersby as if they were dangerous fugitives. My mind was already dissecting the different variables of the fight that was sure to come. The first guard would attack with a quick stab directly at me. I would dodge, and then cut his leg to disable him. Another man would try a swing at my head, so I would now be forced to kick his legs out from under him and put my knife through his chest.

My thinking was torn from this mirage of combat when Altaïr said a quick word and leapt deftly from the rooftop, standing with his back to me, looking halfway over his shoulder, obviously waiting. Frowning, I leapt after him, not knowing what he could possibly be planning. Truly, the most logical plan would be to approach from the sides, though now, looking at the larger scheme, I did not know why we were even leaving the city to begin with. The only thing that came to my mind that would be outside the city would be a home city or hideout for the Assassin order, but it seemed trivial to take me there, where the Rafiq could simply send a pigeon to their leader.

There was no time for me to continue this train of thought, however, seeing as the second my feet touched the earth Altaïr began striding toward the guards, looking mostly at ease. His face was a mask, one that I could not see past except for the briefest of moments; this was one of those moments. A sliver of confusion and a dash of anxiousness before the mask fell back over and I was lost in the dark again.

I was forced to jog slightly to keep up with the assassin's long, purposeful strides, but when I came level with him I was shocked, surprised, petrified beyond reason.

The instant that I was close enough to him that I could see under his hood if I looked up, Altaïr had subtly, oh-so-subtly, slipped his arm around my waist. My chest seemed to contract. My legs froze, but Altaïr's arm pushed me roughly forward.

Bending down so he could speak to me without being heard, he breathed, "I was not expecting to come here alone. Several of my brothers were scheduled to be present, but it seems that will not be the case. There is a chance a fight will occur after all." A pause. Then, "Cover your hair. Do not speak." And he leaned away again, his steely eyes fixed straight ahead, and I had no choice but to do as he commanded.

Reaching back, I pulled up my hood further so it covered the majority of my hair, though that bothersome strand was still in the way, and no matter how passionately I pushed it away it always found a way to fall back in front of my eyes. As I attempted to ignore the very obvious presence of Altaïr's arm resting on my waist, we quickly arrived at the gate, and, as predicted, a guard stopped us. A heavy-looking sword swung formidably at his hip, and his armor looked uncomfortable and difficult to fight in. A scar shouted across one side of his face, the poor healing job very evident. Iron eyes glared at me out from under heavy, dark eyebrows.

"Where do you think you two are going?" He asked harshly. I let my mismatched eyes fall down, making sure I didn't even come close to looking the man in the eyes. Altaïr's voice glided over my head. It was cold and near emotionless, but it sounded like music after the grinding salt of the guard.

"My wife is sick. We are visiting family friends in Jerusalem in hopes of finding medicine." He said, though it was somewhat unconvincing.

"Is that so?" The guard. "Then why do you carry such an abundance of weapons?"

Silence. Even I could have thought of a lie for such a question, but I could feel Altaïr sizing up the chances of us escaping with our lives. His conclusion was obvious, however, as a knife cut through the air above my head and my new robes were suddenly stained in scarlet blood. Altaïr's arm disappeared from around my waist, and I reached into my boot to pull out a dagger, which I immediately whipped into the neck of the nearest guard. There was just enough time for me to dash back and rip it out of the corpse before my wrist was grabbed and I was pulled along by a certain, very irritated-looking assassin. Annoying that I was being dragged about like a child, I tore my hand from his grasp and ran to where we were heading—a small area with bales of hay and several lean horses, one of which I grabbed and hefted myself onto the back of.

Kicking the sides of the beast, I turned in my saddle to see if Altaïr was following me—or this was indeed what I was supposed to be doing at all—when a white blur flashed past me. Looking ahead, it was Altaïr, on his own white mount, looking even more irritated than before. Even though I could not see beneath his hood from this distance, the atmosphere surrounding him was enough to make me immediately set my dark mare to a gallop, and we were billowing up clouds of dust, switch-backing up the side of a steep hill, almost a cliff, listening to the furious shouts of soldiers fade away behind us. Grains of sand blew into my eyes, making me almost want to pull my scarf up over my entire face, but being blind would hardly help at this point.

So we wore on, listening to the hard breathing of my mare and coughing down the dry, chokingly hot air. The sun beat down upon my back, forcing beads of sweat to rise to my brow and soak into my pristine robes. I felt drenched and heavy, as if I were soaked in water instead of heat and sweat. The air ahead of me seemed to shimmer and waver. Small, pitiful-looking bushes flew past us as we tore across the cracked ground. At one point, I saw a large pool of bright blue water, green bushes surrounding the blissful treat of hydration. When I neared it, however, it turned out to be only an illusion, and it made me wonder for a moment if my excitement and nerves had caused me to begin hallucinating. The thought depressed me. So I shook it away, gripping harder into the coarse hairs of my steed's mane and focusing my dry eyes on Altaïr's bright horse, wishing with all of my being that I would not die along the way to my . . . wherever I was going.

[…]

After what seemed like an eternity of running without any sign of stopping, Altaïr began to slow. It was all I could do not to sigh with relief, though it seemed I should have seen it coming. The sun was beginning to set, leaving behind her bright gold flowers for soft yellow and pink spices. Darkness fell across the east, leaving the direction scattered with the beginnings of stars, like tiny eyes staring down on our sojourn through the desert.

Altaïr fell back to trot alongside me, and I noticed both of our mounts' rather labored breathing, and I suddenly worried that the poor creatures might not make it to the end of our journey if they do not get hydration soon.

"We should make camp soon." Altaïr said quietly, almost so that I could not hear him. "The nights are lethal."

Barely holding back a sigh, I retorted briskly, "I am well aware of both the very low temperatures and the less-than-tasteful wildlife, assassin. My parents—"

I stopped, my voice breaking on the word "my". Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Altaïr turn his head ever so slightly in my direction. He was desperate for a change of topic, I knew. As was I; this was not something I wanted to resurface.

"I was not referring to the animals," He said, and I thought—though this was only a thought, and perhaps the heat was still taking its toll on me—that he sounded just a fraction of a fraction gentler. "But that is also something to keep in mind."

So I was left to wonder what indeed he was talking about. And why, why in the name of Allah, I had ever mentioned my parents.

[…]

Altaïr branched to the left of the road just as the sun ducked below the haunting mountains, which glared down at us from miles in the distance. We steered the horses to a small hangover of rock approximately five-and-twenty feet off the unpaved road. With a groan I fell stiffly from atop my mare, which nickered at the change in weight. Limping sorely to the shade of the cliff, I patted her nose as she bowed to nibble plaintively at the sparse grass. Wincing, I collapsed on the hard ground, which was so dry and undernourished that it felt quite a lot like stone. My legs felt like they were going to fall off if I moved them too much.

I reached up and pushed back my hood, sighing as a trickle of a breeze cooled the back of my neck and dried some of the salty sweat there. Looking back to the horses, I noticed Altaïr removing the saddle from his stallion, and I sighed as I figured that I might as well do the same before I very well fell asleep. My legs protested sharply when I attempted getting up, but I gritted my teeth and shuffled onward.

[…]

The fire was weak, and hardly any comfort at all, but it was something. In retrospect, it really cannot be called a fire at all. Something closer to "single flame" is much closer to what I was practically lying on top of, the flames brushing a precariously dangling piece of cloth from my scarf.

"If you lean at the fire like that," Altaïr's voice slid through the dry, cold air like a snake. "You are going to be set aflame."

Sneering at him, I leaned back and pulled out a knife, making to cut the cloth from the scarf. The knife touched the fabric, and my hand was suddenly seized as if by an unearthly force. No matter how I tried, I could not bring myself from cutting into the soft red scarf. My hand twitched slightly, and with a cry of frustration I hurled the knife into the ground fifty meters away, the blade sinking into the earth up to the hilt. Glaring at the distant knife for a few seconds longer, I turned back to the flame and bowed my head, suddenly ashamed.

A pregnant silence descended. Several minutes passed, and neither of us uttered a single sound; or even moved, even to sleep. As I was beginning to suspect that I would be sitting in that same spot for the rest of the night, the shimmer of my knife blade caught my attention. Frowning, I glanced back at Altaïr, but his hood shadowed his eyes. Although judging by the way his head was tilted, I could guess that he had seen it as well. My eyes flicked back to the area where my knife was, and then back to Altaïr before I grudgingly made up my mind and stood, slowly walking to the suspicious spot just outside the small ring light given off by the fire.

Carefully looking about, I kneeled and inspected the dry dirt. There, I saw a small line where my knife had been. Of course, it was gone now, which obviously raised my suspicion much higher. Tightening my scarf, I jogged back to the fire, next to which Altaïr was now standing, the aforementioned assassin now fingering something close to his wrist.

"It seems I am now short one knife." I said in response to the questioning air about him. "Though who owes me that knife remains to be seen."

Altaïr did not say anything for a moment. Then, "A member of a certain band of thieves." He finally got out, though he was still wearing his mask. "They have been following us as we traveled, though I have had no chance to confront them. Be prepared for a fight; these men are not to be trifled with." He rubbed his fingers more insistently against his wrist, and in my eyes it was beginning to look rather ridiculous.

A shadow to my left shifted, but when I looked, there was nothing there. Beckoning to Altaïr, I whispered, "Back-to-back." He nodded and turned around so that our backs were inches away; I quickly kicked out at the dirt, smothering the pathetic fire with a pile of dust. Darkness fell, blinding me but sharpening my hearing slightly. Something sounded to my right, a foot against the sand. A gentle clickof blades hitting each other. My attention turned to that direction, suspecting what would happen next, but I was far too slow. Far too slow.

The throwing knife hit the side of my thigh, so fast that it took several short seconds for the pain to reach me—several seconds that were far too short.

Agony pierced me, shooting into my body like poison. A scream ripped from my throat as I instantly crumpled, hot blood running down my leg and sprouting red flowers across my robes. Rocks dug into my cheek as I lay bleeding, my senses slowly dulling down enough to make everything melt into a meaningless blur. Distantly I heard the sounds of blades clashing and men screaming as they breathed their last, though the sounds came as though from miles away, the excruciating pain overpowering all else. Breathing raggedly, I attempted to shift, to stand, to do anything other than lie here and wait for some straggler to realize that I was injured and kill me, defenseless and bleeding to death.

Coughing, I pushed myself up onto one elbow, ignoring the screaming pain spouting from my leg. Reaching stiffly down, I wrapped my fingers around the rough makeshift knife and pulled. I screamed again, the sound echoing in my ears. Faintly I felt hands begin wrapping a cloth in a tourniquet around my upper thigh, then bandages around the wound. Rolling my neck, I sat up slightly to try and see what was happening, when the same pair of warm, calloused hands pushed me (surprisingly gently) back down.

"Moving would not be wise." Altaïr, his voice masked. I sighed and closed my eyes, adjusted my scarf, and let sleep cradle me.

"Very well . . ." I murmured, unconsciousness already closing in. "But now you are the one that owes me a knife."


	3. Ribbon

**Chapter 3**

**Dear readers,**

**Welcome, welcome, glad you decided to join me, new and old reviewers. Enjoy, and don't forget to fav, alert and review! **

**I've been kinda losing the plot with this thing, so I'm open to requests/ideas/whatever. Thanks!**

**Sincerely,**

**AF**

**Song: You're Gonna Go Far, Kid, -The Offspring**

"**There's something in your way, and now someone is gonna pay**

**And if you can't get what you want, well, it's all because of me.**

**Now dance, fucker, dance! Man I never had a chance,**

**And no one even knew, it was really only you and now you'll **

**Lead the way, show the light of day..nice work you did—**

**You're gonna go far, kid!"**

The waking world found me on the back of a horse. My entire body protested as I moved with the slow trot of the beast; my leg most of all. My breathing sped up, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. Shifting, I leaned back to find someone else on the horse with me. Altaïr. Logic told me I shouldn't be surprised, but I was. He could have waited for me to wake up, and if my reading of the shadows was correct, then not much time could have passed. He must be in quite the rush to leave behind a perfectly good horse and go through the trouble of getting my formerly unconscious body on his own horse and ride miles across a desert. I relaxed, remembering my new life ahead. Worry haunted me, surely, but also the promise of a home, and food every day, and of course time to train with others with similar skills to mine.

My excess energy slowly began to wane, and was replaced with fatigue, like none other I had ever experienced. It infected my body, crawling across my limbs and draining my pain, my awareness, my consciousness, until blackness began sneaking back into the edges of my vision. My eyes began to slide closed, and it felt wonderful just to sleep again. Wind rushed past me for a moment, and I panicked for a heartbeat before an arm grabbed me and pushed me left until I was sitting straight in the horse's saddle again.

It was then that I truly woke. With a great effort I forced my eyelids open, convincing my mind to take in what I was seeing. Altaïr's arms, on either side of me and loosely holding the reins; tall ravine walls towering over us on the sides of the dirt track; a tiny settlement several miles ahead. A handful of people walked slowly along the road, some women carrying vases of water or bundles of produce. A lone, chestnut horse tied to a large piece of wood on the side of the road, chewing plaintively on the edge of a very large bale of hay.

Turning slightly, I asked Altaïr, "How long have we been riding?"

"Since daybreak, several hours ago" Was the answer.

I frowned and pushed Altaïr's arms away from me, curled my legs up, turned in the saddle, and leapt from the back of the horse, my hood falling back as I did so, my hair bouncing out and over my shoulders. I heard the surprised, irritated, suspicious intake of air from him, but I ignored him. As I hit the ground, a sharp gasp came from me as the majority of my weight shifted to my injured leg, making tendrils of razor pain sprint gracefully through my blood and into my body, and dots of light flashed before my eyes. Gritting my teeth, I took a deep breath and limped to the light wheat horse, which I mounted (with much effort and pain). Flicking the reins, I took off at a fast trot, falling back onto the road and waited patiently for Altaïr to catch up with me. I sighed in contentedness, letting the feeling of dry wind in my hair drain some of the heavy sleep still clinging desperately to my eyes, my insides, my heart.

When Altaïr at last pulled up alongside me, I saw that his eyes were shadowed by his hood, his knuckles white against the dark leather of the reins. "That was not a wise move," He ground out angrily. "I almost killed you."

I raised an amused eyebrow. "And why would you have done that?" I inquired.

His gaze was set straight ahead, almost as if he were in physical pain attempting to hold in his aggravation. "My instructions were to bring you to my Master without serious injury or death, but should you try to get away from me I was permitted to kill you, seeing as you know a dangerous amount already. I have failed at one of these." He took a breath. "You ran, so I assumed you were attempting an escape. You did not have an idea how very close you were to my blade." I furrowed my brow as he opened his left fist to show a small, dark lock of filthy black hair. My hair.

I blinked slowly, my mind now fully awake. The intake of air I had heard had not been Altaïr . . . it had been his blade cutting through the air, missing my neck by the width of a finger. My odd eyes flicked between his hand and the sword swinging on his waist.

"That is not possible . . ." I said distantly. "You could not have possibly drawn your sword that fast. At least, not without killing me." This was quite the puzzle. His sword was too long and clumsy to cut the hair that neatly, and his daggers were too far hidden in his robes for him the draw them in time.

I voiced my thoughts, almost without realizing that I had. The air around Altaïr suddenly changed; it became the cold embrace of submission, the toxic kiss of apprehension, the icy caress of danger. With something that sounded like "Knows too much", his fingers flew to his wrist, exactly as I had seen them the previous night, and flicked a tiny, unnoticeable switch around his smallest finger.

The air was punctuated by a quiet _snick _as a short, deadly sharp blade shot from the leather bracer on his forearm.

I was sure that my eyes were on fire. Lit from the beauty and uniqueness of this device, this wonderful creation of engineering. What I would not give to be able to pick it apart, discover what made it work as flawlessly as it did.

"So clever . . ." I murmured, entranced by the device still. "I have never seen anything of it's like . . . it must feature prominently in your work." I stated. Altaïr's face remained masked, shadowed, silent.

Smiling under my scarf, I extended my hand over the gap between our horses and placed my hand on the sharp blade, the urge to see it overcoming my common sense. "May I just . . ." I started quietly, but there was no chance for me to finish. Altaïr jerked his hand back reflexively without thinking about the switch, leaving the blade open. A red ribbon appeared instantly, flowing silkily down my arm and pouring onto my lap, the edges framed with poisoned razors of pain.

Hissing, I pulled my hand back like lightning, pressing the injured extremity with my other hand to stem some of the bleeding; which stained my other hand a splotched crimson, the metallic smell of blood invading my nostrils. Swearing lowly, I reached over to Altaïr and asked icily for bandages. He reached into a pack at his belt and produced a perfectly-sized bundle of white cloth, without uttering a single word. Not a single word, not an apology, not a word of compassion. Not a word.

Swiftly wrapping my hand, I stopped a sigh in relief as the stinging morphed into a dull throb. After several minutes of desert heat, red dots began to soak through the bandages. I tucked my arm close against my chest, praying that the pain would disappear.

It did not.

The remainder of the journey was silent.

[…]

The sheer size of Masyaf was what startled me. If this was supposed to be the hidden base of the Assassin order, they were not being quite subtle about the idea. The stone fortress towered over Altaïr and me from atop a cliff, the sun falling behind and leaving a glowing halo surrounding the battlements. After admiring it for a few moments, I blinked and continued following Altaïr, who quickly dismounted his horse in a small worn area just inside a wall of towering logs, sharpened to rough points at the tops, impossible to climb and deadly to fall upon. The gate to the town was open, four guards in red and white mail standing on either side of the wooden barrier. I noticed they all had one hand resting loosely on their swords. It was casual, but I noted to myself to be wary.

Wincing, I slowly, painfully dismounted my horse, limping desperately to keep up with Altaïr's long strides. I could feel hot blood leaking through the bandages and onto my leg, making me crave a new wrapping, on both my thigh and my hand. Pressing the latter closer to my ribcage, I caught up to Altaïr, who had been stopped at the gate by a gruff-looking assassin, who was staring at Altaïr with a hidden sort of contempt. As I approached, it became clear that they were arguing. About what, I did not know, but something told me that it would be better that way.

I caught the last few heated words of Altaïr. ". . . not lost any of my skills, so you would do well to remember that I am not below you, Abbas, despite what you may think."

The man, Abbas, laughed coldly. "Despite what is true, Altaïr." He countered sharply. His gaze fell on me, and I raised my head to meet the calculating eyes now set upon me. He smiled neutrally. "And who is this?" I said nothing yet, not because I had nothing to say, but because I was curious as to what the other assassin had to say.

Altaïr hesitated. "None of your concern." He said, but there was no denying the slight, unsure pause.

Abbas chuckled. "Now, Altaïr, do not tell me you do not even know the girl's name?"

Hesitation. I could see Altaïr's mask beginning to crack, the edges of annoyance and shattered pride leaking through like a toxic fluid.

"Areebah." I said quickly. I do not know why I was so quick with my name. Perhaps it was an instinct, and I wished to distract attention from Altaïr, who had no way of answering the given question. But despite whatever had compelled me to blurt my title, I certainly had Abbas's attention now.

He turned to me, intelligent eyes gleaming. "And where do you hail from, _Areebah_?" He asked, putting extra emphasis on my name, as if he suspected that I was lying—which I was not.

"Damas." I attempted to keep my answers as short and simple as possible.

A hint of amusement grazed across the face of the assassin. "Damascus . . . yes, I know of it. There are many fine brothels there."

I furrowed my eyebrows, not sure where he was going with this; but I had an idea. And I did not like this idea. "What does that have to do with your original question?" I asked, suspicion glazing my words.

"I was simply wondering which you came from." He smirked.

_Smack!_

The sickening sound of bones breaking drifted on the dusty air as my fist made contact with the sneering face of Abbas. I felt his nose crack under the pressure of my hand, and a hot river of scarlet poured down his face and my knuckles. The man spluttered from pain and blood in his mouth, his hands flying up to clasp his nose. With a satisfied, revenge-filled smile, I rubbed my fist across my robes, leaving a smear of thin red, and walked casually past Abbas and through the wooden gate.

Before I could take a dozen steps past the threshold, however, a large hand wrapped around my upper arm and roughly yanked me around, making my thigh sear in pain. The face of Altaïr loomed above me, looking utterly exasperated, and more than just a touch irritated.

"That," He gesticulated at the blood-stained Abbas. "Was very unwise. That is not tolerated here. If," He backtracked quickly. "You become one of us."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes, well, he was not exactly being the most gracious of welcoming parties." I scoffed. I began limping away again, and though I did not know quite where I was supposed to be going, I gravitated automatically towards the towering fortress on the other side of the town. As I walked (I assumed Altaïr was following me), what amazed me were the people.

They continued with daily business, women balancing vases of water precariously on their heads, children clinging shyly to dull-colored skirts, and men laughed boisterously. Did these people not know that they were being ruled by killers? No, that could not be possible. They must know . . . a horrifying thought struck me. My head swiveled back and forth, observing the wooden gate through which I had just come. True to my theory, no citizens got within an approximate twenty foot radius of the gate. I shook my head at the injustice. No one was getting too close to the exit . . . they might be mistaken for escaping. The assassins were permitted to kill those who tried to get away.

I knew that already.

Altaïr walked past me, the air around him simply electric. I followed, still rattled from the realization of the trapped population of Masyaf. Sighing, I touched the bandage on my hand (the action soon becoming something of a nervous twitch) and started after the brooding assassin.

[…]

When we reached the fortress, I was surprised at the sight of other women there. They crowded around a rickety-looking wooden training ring, where two assassins with swords circled each other. The women did not look very professional, as most of them carried no weapons that I could see. In fact, the only indication that they were even part of the Brotherhood at all was a red sash wrapped around their waists. This puzzled me—were women not allowed? If this were the case, why was I brought here, or left alive, for that matter?

These thoughts trundled through my mind as I walked across a courtyard, occupied only by a couple dozen assassins, the training ring, posts for hitching one's horse, and a seemingly random ladder to my immediate right that led up into a stone tower. As I followed Altaïr through the training grounds, I noticed several stares flocking in from the male onlookers, so I assumed with simmering annoyance that my chest bindings were not being very effective. Though perhaps it was simply the fact that I was a newcomer; and though it made no sense to me, I had a vague, deep-rooted feeling that Altaïr was gathering his own bouquet of drawn eyes. This was another riddle for me to solve—Altaïr seemed like a seasoned assassin who had been with the Brotherhood for years. Why, then, were the eyes angry, and confused, and filled with betrayal?

We made our way up a large ramp with a low incline, which led to a towering doorway leading into a musty library. Dust particles lay suspended in the air, white against the pale golden sun streaming through the windows and doorway. A handful of young men (and one woman) perused the shelves, wearing the signature robes of red and white, gray chainmail cloaking their heads, and arms towering with books and scrolls. Altaïr walked past the young assassins without a second glance, to the end of the hall and up three flights of stairs that led around the end of the hall and wrapped up around to an office or further library above the entrance. At the base of the second staircase, there was another doorway similar to the front where I had entered. As I limped to the top, I stole a glance into the doorway, and what I saw surprised me. Instead of the dry ground I had thought would be there, through the stone arch there was instead a rich, lush garden dotted with wrought-iron and painted gazebos. Standing in packs and in scanty clothing were women, beautiful women who moved through the grass like smoke and had long, nicely brushed hair of all shades, and had matching eyes—

My leg seared, and my toe caught on the first step of the third flight of stairs, making me stumble and catch myself before I injured myself more or my bandages came off. Altaïr marched dutifully onward, not even pausing to look back as I growled out some of my more favored curses and shuffled haltingly after him.

The upper level turned out to be a sort of study, housing a desk with several large books and a shining sword. Two much larger bookcases than the ones below stood guard on either side of the desk, but what distracted me was the man behind the desk.

He was elderly, and obviously someone of great status amongst the Brotherhood. His gaze followed Altaïr and I up the staircase, a gaze that I desperately wanted to hide from. It felt as though my very soul were being dissected and observed by some malevolent third party, and it was through sheer willpower that I kept myself from retreating back down the steps and away from this man. His chin was decorated with a long, bushy beard, his nose crooked from many breakings over his life. One of his eyes was milky, all the way out to the corners, a thin scar cutting across the blind eye. I found myself instantly labeling this man as one that I would not trust with anything, whether it is my secret strategy to growing the largest pomegranates one will ever see or my life.

He and Altaïr conversed about the death of Abu'l Nuquod. It was a brief conversation, but I stayed in the background, ignoring the pain in my leg, and quietly observing both men's reactions in the eye of an outsider. Altaïr seemed to revere the older man (whom he referred to as Al Mualim) to a high extent, hanging on every word that came from his bearded mouth. Al Mualim . . . something was off about him. No matter how much trust Altaïr placed in The Teacher, I could see, through eyes unclouded by blind dedication, that something about that man was very suspicious. And I was determined to find out why.

The conversation switched abruptly to me.

"Who is this?" Al Mualim stated bluntly. Not all that subtle, for the wise master of the assassin order.

"I found her," Altaïr explained dutifully. "On the streets of Damas." He glanced at me briefly, almost too brief for me to notice; but I caught it, and so did Al Mualim. "She wishes to join the Brotherhood."

Ice pierced my insides. Al Mualim's gaze penetrated me, making me unconsciously fidget in discomfort—the first time I had been truly awkward in years. Something about the way he looked made me nervous, and my blood raced and white spots floated in my vision and pain overtook everything . . . and my head was swimming . . . and everything was at an angle. . . why were Altaïr's boots now level with my face . . .?

[…]

I was woken by the shattering of a glass.

Several gruff curses were projected through the still air, and though I desperately wanted to know the face of the perpetrator of the rough language (to challenge my own, I might add), I could not force myself to open my eyes—only my mouth.

"Where . . . where am I?" I asked softly. "Why can I not open my eyes?"

I heard a surprisingly soft chuckle from not far away. There was a shuffling sound, like cloth on stone. A hand pressed against my face, soft from ages of wear. I flinched away violently, my head hitting the wall I didn't realize I was sitting next to. The flinch was for two reasons. The first was that I could now only see through slits of my eyes . . . and the second was that the hand had touched my cheek.

My bare cheek. Which had not been touched by hands other than my own in over a decade.


	4. Destiny

**Chapter 4**

**Dear readers,**

**Wow, it has been a while. So sorry for the delay, I had lots of other stuff to work on. Life got in the way. So much to do, so little time. I like to think I've gotten a bit better at writing since I published the last chapter of this story, and I will try to improve as I go. So without further ado, I present the fourth chapter of this slowly dying story.**

**Sincerely,**

**W'P**

**P.S. So yeah, I've changed my pen name. =_= So yeah, in case you were wondering if someone randomly copied this story. It's been done.**

**Song: Baby Doll, Cat Power**

I breathed in and out deeply, trying desperately to keep my panicking heart rate under control. I was not able to move any of my limbs, or open my eyes completely. My heart jumped sharply as my hand fell through open air—I was suspended on something. The little that I could see through my half-lidded eyes revealed a large room bathed in yellow candlelight. The walls seemed to be mostly covered in bookcases or shelves of some sort, but my vision was suddenly blocked by a thin, wrinkled hand holding a clump of green and red leaves.

"Eat this, girl." The voice was dry and scratchy, but pleasant as I obediently opened my lips. The fingers pushed the soft leaves in and pushed my jaw shut. "Chew and swallow."

I did so, and almost immediately my vision cleared and my eyes snapped open. The plant left an unpleasant, bitter taste in my mouth, but I felt much more alive and well than I had in quite a while. The same hand extended to me, bearing my scarf. Faster than I thought I could move I had snatched the thing out of the wrinkled hand and wrapped the red cloth around my face in a hurry, wanting to cover it back up as quickly as humanly possible. After my face was sufficiently masked, I felt infinitely calmer.

"You're a pretty girl." A voice crackled. I glanced up at the source. It was a hunched old woman, donned in tattered green robes; gray hair lay in dry, uneven locks around her craggy face. She opened her mouth and grinned toothlessly. "Don't usually see pretty girls wantin' to cover their faces."

I frowned slightly. "Where am I?" The bookcases around the walls were not bookcases at all, but in fact shelves covered in vials, wooden boxes and glass tubes of varying sizes, as well as barrels and crates on the ground. The room smelled strongly of herbs and the stinging, coppery stench of blood. Small, stained white beds were positioned in the room as well, and I was not alone. Two more of the beds were taken up by men in white shifts. One of them was moaning quietly, gripping a bloodstained bandage that was wrapped around his middle.

The woman shuffled to the wall to my right, running a finger over the labels of the bottles on the shelves. At last she picked a small sack tied with a thin red string. She walked back to me and handed me the little bag.

"You're in the infirmary, in Masyaf." She wheezed. "You were hurt pretty bad, lost a lot of blood, but you'll live." She gestured to the bag in my hands. "Eat a couple of those leaves when you can't deal with the pain. It'll help."

I nodded and made to tie the bag at my belt when I realized I was wearing a white robe like the others here. Although it was plain and rather comfortable I found myself wishing for my clothes.

The woman smiled at me. "I don't believe I have introduced myself. I am Ikram. Most know me as 'the healer woman', but either one will do."

I bowed slightly. "Thank you for healing me. If you do not mind, however, I wish simply to begin training."

Ikram seemed to falter slightly. "You . . . aren't going to be one of the girls?" She asked quizzically.

My brows came together. "I . . . no, I do not believe so. Why?"

"Why?" The medicine woman laughed. "There are no female Hashashins! Where did you ever get the idea that you would be _fighting_?" I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut off. "Come." Ikram beckoned to me with a gnarled finger as she shuffled to the door leading to what I assumed to be the rest of the fortress. "I will show you the gardens."

My arms shook slightly as I lifted myself off the sturdy wooden table I was suspended on—despite my newly awakened state, I was still very weak. The stone floor felt like ice against my bare feet as I gingerly lowered myself to the ground. Pain lanced through my leg as I limped quickly after the retreating back of Ikram. We were almost out the door when a man on one of the wooden tables suddenly groaned loud enough that it was almost a scream. I halted for a moment and looked back at the man, his face twisted in pain, but Ikram continued on.

"Do you not have some herb that can heal his suffering?" I asked as struggled to catch up.

The medicine woman waved a hand flippantly. "He's a grown man. He can handle it. All I can give him is hashish, and he's so reliant on the stuff he's going to run my stores dry."

We continued in silence through a short, narrow hall for several paces before emerging in a large, airy hall. Ikram moved out of the way of a tall shelf of books; I vaguely recalled where I had seen such shelves and realized that we were in the stronghold of Masyaf. The entrance to the infirmary was somewhat hidden, and I wondered what imbecile thought to put the infirmary in a corner behind a bookshelf.

After rounding a staircase, we turned to the entrance of the garden I had glimpsed upon my arrival. As we passed the armed guards on either side of the tall entrance, I wondered how long I had been unconscious. Hours? Days?

The garden was revealed to be less of a garden and more of an outdoor brothel. Women in silky, translucent dresses flitted about the grass, powdered and painted like dolls. Flower petals drifted on the warm breeze, falling on the decorated roofs of gazebos, giving the garden a heavenly look. I felt my lip curl in disgust. I would rather die than become one of these polished whores. Ikram continued on, apparently oblivious to my immediate distaste.

"This is the garden, pretty girl." Ikram gestured around the flowered, grassy enclosure. "It's so beautiful here, no? I do hope you enjoy living here."

I stopped and turned to the old healer. "I will not live here."

Ikram laughed loudly. She seemed to do that quite a lot. "Why, of course you will, pretty girl! You must forget this nonsense about becoming one of the Hashashins. Now, I think you've quite tired of this place, no?" She chuckled hoarsely. "Let's get you some clean clothes."

Knowing there was no point in arguing with this woman, I obediently followed, silently grinding my teeth. After a small staircase down, we turned into a small room set into the base of the fortress. It seemed to be some sort of dressing room. A handful of girls and women were there, putting fresh kohl on their eyes and paint on their lips. A few looked up upon our arrival, and even called out words of greeting to Ikram, but did not seem particularly surprised. The healer led me past through the room and to a small cabinet, from which she removed a folded garment; one of the thin robes worn by the women. She tossed the robe into my hands and led me to a small seat positioned in front of a immaculately polished, slightly scratched mirror.

"Sit." She said pleasantly.

I remained standing. "No."

"Girl!" Ikram exclaimed suddenly. "Enough! You are here, you cannot leave, and you are not going to be one of the Assassins! You must quit this fantasy."

"Listen," I hissed, lowering my voice. Some of the women were beginning to turn their heads. "You have healed my wounds and for that I am grateful, but I am no prostitute and never will be. I will gladly fight my way from this fortress before I am forced into this life."

I set the robe on the seat and stalked out, my temper flaring. The effect of my walking out, which normally might have been somewhat dramatic, was ruined by the fact that I was staying standing only through sheer willpower. I walked out of the gardens and was just reaching the bottom of the stairs when I slammed headfirst into a wall. Stumbling back, I found that it was not a wall, but in fact Altaïr, who was now glowering at me with a very annoyed expression on his shadowed features.

"I want a verdict on my status here," I demanded, still seething from the garden. "Some here are apparently under the impression that I'm to become a whore."

Altaïr looked over my head at the entrance to the garden, the back down at me. "My master has not yet decided what to do with you. I was sent to retrieve you, as you are now to see him as soon as you are well enough."

I nodded, satisfied with having something to do, and started up the stairs as fast as I was able, which was not very. After a few steps I stopped when I realized Altaïr was not accompanying me. "Are you not to come with me?" I asked.

The Assassin took a step back to the main entrance of the fortress, face now shadowed even further. "You alone must speak with him. If my presence were to influence you in any way, you would be rid of."

Rolling my shoulders and wincing, I leaned on the stone banister and made the agonizingly slow climb up the stairs, then turned and repeated the process up the second staircase. By the time I reached the sunny, dusty library on top, I was gasping for air. The floor swam in front of me, and my head felt light. I blinked hard several times, pulled my scarf up further, and stepped up to the large desk that sat in front of a massive window that overlooked the training grounds I had seen earlier. More bookshelves occupied the upper floor, and a few robed monks flitted in and out of the shadowed isles.

"So, child," The voice pulled me from my observations. It was old and would have sounded wise, but if living on the streets had taught me one thing, it was how to distinguish someone who was not trustworthy. An older man stood straight and proud, silhouetted at first by the sun from the window, but as he moved closer to the desk I could make out a long beard and one milky, blind eye. "You are the one that Altaïr has brought back from Damascus." He clasped his hands behind his back and narrowed his eyes. "What is your name?"

I was reluctant to say anything at all, but instinct told me that that would be an unwise decision. "Areebah."

"A delicate name for an urchin." I didn't miss the scathing tone. "I am Al Mualim. I am the Master Assassin here in Masyaf, and oversee everything my Assassins do, and who they kill. It is a rigorous life, and one that most are born into." He inclined his hooded head. Unlike most I had seen, he wore a black robe. "What makes you think that you should join our order? You will not even show us your face."

I leaned my weight against the stone banister, still breathing a little heavily. "Surely it is not unusual for you to recruit new members?"

"Not _so _unusual, no. But never before has a woman become one if us."

"I have lived my life on the streets of Damas. I know how to fight, and run, and will do so willingly for your order. And, I know much about your Assassins." My words were dangerous, I knew.

Al Mualim placed his palms on his desk and leaned forward, his voice lowering dangerously. "Exactly _how much _do you know?"

"Enough that I would be a dangerous hindrance if I fell into your enemies' hands, but not enough that I myself can do much."

There was a pregnant pause. I kept eye contact for as long as I could with Al Mualim's seeing, black eye. It felt like looking into a churning pit of black water, in the depths of hell itself.

Almost as I was about to looks away, the elder man did first; to my surprise, he chuckled drily as he did so. "You're clever, girl. Too clever for your own good. I do not think I will make you an Assassin yet, but that does not mean I will kill you. You know the man who found you, Altaïr?" I nodded silently. "Good. He is currently on a series of missions, on which you will accompany him and provide assistance as necessary. Collect information for Altaïr, and follow our Creed, but under _no circumstance _will you assassinate his mark for him."

The Master opened a drawer and began writing something on a few strips of parchment. "I am regularly informed of goings-on and any assassinations made. If I hear this has happened, and you have taken Altaïr's mark, he will bring you back here and I will kill you myself." He straightened up again and peered harshly at me again with the horrible eyes he had. "Do I make myself quite clear?"

It was a more generous offer than I had expected. Honestly, I had believed my journey had come to an end. I bowed my head, the only time I could recall doing so for anybody. "Yes, Master." I found myself swearing.

"Very good." I looked up to see him securing the strips of paper to the legs of three doves, which had been sitting in a cage I had not noticed before. "Perhaps someday you may earn your place amongst our ranks, but for the foreseeable future, this will be our arrangement. Remember your punishment should you stray." The words were a clear dismissal. He pushed open the widows and released the three white birds.

Moments later, I found myself shuffling down the stairs, relieved to be away from Al Mualim. My feet were still quite bare, but now the cold stone was a way to bring myself down to earth. My visit to this Assassin Master had felt almost trance-like. Like a dream where I could see things happening before me, but I could do nothing to stop them, and simply watched the events play out of my hands.

Like a nightmare.

()()()()()

_Whew! A short 'sorry-about-the-huge-delay' chapter. Hope you enjoyed this little return, and I'll be back relatively soon with more! _


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